


New Ground (And Second Families)

by Elenothar



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint is getting to be an expert in dealing with James Bond, Crossover, M/M, family connection, meeting the 'family', reckless agents find each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenothar/pseuds/Elenothar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Clint Barton accidentally runs into James Bond, and one time they meet on purpose.</p><p>Or the one in which Clint finds out that a shared love for explosions isn't the only thing he has in common with MI6's most notorious agent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Ground (And Second Families)

**Author's Note:**

> ... so this happened. I don't even know why I thought this was a good idea. Anyway, have over 6k of agent brotp?
> 
> Unbetaed, sadly.

(1)

The first time Clint meets MI6’s infamous 007, he had, admittedly, gotten himself into a bit of a pickle. Apprehend a lone assassin, they said. Shouldn’t be a problem, they said. He really doesn’t have sufficient time to curse whoever at SHIELD provided this sloppy – and also dead wrong, as he’s finding – intel, since he’s currently trying to escape from the vantage point he used to shoot his target _without_ getting jumped by any of the seven other hired killers – the ones that SHIELD insisted don’t exist. So far he’s avoided a spectacularly violent death only with a combination of luck and unusually thick walls (well, and some skill too, not to show undue humility), but they’re slowly but surely backing him into a corner. He’s pretty sure at least one other sniper’s covering the outside (getting shot at on the roof is usually a good indicator), so jumping out the window is out. Which is why he ends up stuck in a room with two exits he can’t adequately cover at once, no way out, and back-up at least 15 minutes out, according to Coulson’s voice in his ear. His handler isn’t really in a position to help him right now. Fucking London. This is _not_ how he’s imagined biting the dust one day.

Clint shoots the first guy to come through the left door point-blank, arrow burying deep in his forehead, only to immediately try to dodge the second one’s retaliation shots. Fiery pain rips through his thigh with the inevitable hit, but the injury only occupies his mind secondarily – he halts in surprise as his opponent goes down in a spray of blood before Clint even has the chance to fire another arrow.

Suspicious, he keeps the string drawn back to his ear, ignoring his leg’s protests at still being stood on and faces the doors. No other attacker emerges. Instead, an immaculately dressed man steps through the door, holding both hands at his sides in a show of nonchalance, ostentatiously without a weapon in either.

“Please don’t shoot me,” he drawls, British accent clear in his confident, rough voice. “This resurrection business is ever so tedious.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” Clint returns, his aim unwavering despite the pain in his leg. Something about the other man is nagging at him, as if he should know who he is, but he simply can’t figure it out.

To his credit, the stranger doesn’t bother pointing out that he’d just saved Clint’s hide by doing away with the rest of his attackers. Instead he just smirks, and says, “James Bond. British Secret Service. And even disregarding the fact that some people here in London wouldn’t be very happy if you shot me, you’re at a disadvantage anyway.”

Clint has to admit that the man has a point, however grudgingly. Also, the name James Bond rings a dim bell. He looks at the way the man stands, confident, smooth, ready to spring into action at a moment’s warning, or maybe even less. Clearly a seasoned field agent.

It clicks. “You’re 007.”

Bond’s smirk turns even more lethal, if possible. “Guilty as charged, Agent Barton.”

Clint slowly lowers the bow, not even bothering with asking how Bond knows his name. These secret agent types always know far more than what’s good for them. His frown stays put however. There’s still something almost familiar about Bond, as if he’d met him before when he’s quite sure he never has. Considering his current situation, Clint pushes the issue out of his mind for the time being.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks, curiously. Usually one didn’t run into other agents out in the field, as much as it is a movie cliché. “And why did you help me?”

“Well, I figured since you did away with my target so neatly, the least I could do was give you a hand with these guys.” He nods towards the dead body in front of him.

It makes sense, given that his target had also killed more than one British citizen before he’d made the mistake of going after US ones. Clint relaxes even more, the last of his adrenaline ebbing away – only to find himself stumbling a little as his thigh throbbed even more with pain now that his concentration is unravelling.

Before he can do more than let off a curse, Bond is next to him, steadying his injured side. He eyes the wound critically for a moment.

“Not exactly life-threatening, but you should get it looked at before you lose more blood,” he comments, already busy tearing a makeshift bandage out of Clint’s uniform. Apparently his helpfulness doesn’t extend to sacrificing parts of his suit – well, it is a rather expensive one by the looks of it; Tom Ford or something or other.

Clint hisses a little as Bond tightens the strip of cloth and complains. “I hate SHIELD medics. They always fuss.”

For a moment Bond looks almost sympathetic, obviously having had his own experiences with medics.

“How about you come with me to my apartment? I can patch you up there.”

Surprised by the offer, Clint has to take a moment to think it over. Well, he’s already pretty much laid his life into Bond’s hands and he can’t deny that there’s something inherently fascinating, even magnetic about the other man which has his curiosity more than peaked, so he figures he might as well dodge the SHIELD medics. An MI6 agent killing a SHIELD agent for no good reasons is unheard of at any rate.

“Fine,” he says, straightening up against Bond’s side a little. “Lead the way.”

“Get rid of the tracker in your ear first. I already have enough secret agencies nosing around my place,” Bond instructs, obviously sure that Clint would do as he asked. Clint does, taking out his earpiece with only a comment to Coulson not to worry, everything was _fine_ , and then letting it drop to the ground before stomping on it once.

Bond nods, satisfied.

*

Sixteen minutes later, Clint is looking around a modestly sized but rather modern apartment – all sleek edges and curves –as Bond is busy retrieving a med kit he’s stashed away somewhere (Clint doesn’t doubt  he needs it often). The absence of pretty much anything personal in the room is striking, if not entirely unexpected, given what he’s heard about MI6’s most notorious field operative.

Bond takes care of his injury with clear expertise, hands sure as they clean the entry and exit points of the bullet, apply antiseptic, and proceed to wrap a much neater bandage this time. Clint watches him work silently, careful to keep as still as possible – something is still nagging at him, down in his subconscious, but he can’t seem to get a clear read on whatever his intuition is trying to tell him.

He polishes off the couple of painkillers Bond offers him wordlessly like the pro he is, then asks, “Why’re you doing this? Taking strange agents into your living space goes a little farther than gratitude for getting rid of a shared target.”

Bond only smiles enigmatically, the bastard. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Don’t let me ruin the surprise.”

“I hate surprises,” Clint grumbles in reply, entirely aware that if Bond doesn’t want to tell him, he _won’t_ , no matter how much Clint might try to get it out of him.

“Of course you do. Every decent agent does,” Bond chuckles, and as far as Clint can see there’s true mirth in his eyes. Helping Clint up, Bond adds, “You should get going. SHIELD should be hammering down the door in about ten minutes, if my estimation is correct.”

The ‘and it usually is’ goes unspoken, and Clint doesn’t doubt it in the slightest.

At the door, he turns around and says, entirely sincerely, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Bond.”

He barely makes out a quiet, even thoughtful, “Likewise,” from the other man before the door falls shut behind him.

Clint stands there on the landing for a few moments, trying to get his thoughts about what the hell just happened to him in order.

James Bond. Huh.

A smile slowly makes its way onto his face – this was definitely worth the lengthy and irate lecture he is sure to catch from Coulson later.

(2)

The second time Clint is, euphemistically speaking, bored out of his fucking mind. It’s not that he doesn’t understand that a world security summit with far too many too important people literally in the same room is risky business (even if the whole thing’s so hush hush that the world at large has no idea it’s even happening) and thus requires more than the usual protection detail, but that doesn’t mean that he likes it – especially since he’s been on duty for four days now and jack shit has happened so far.

He surveys the crowd from his favoured position on one of the upper balconies, eyes alighting on the newly arrived head of MI6. He bites back a grin. He’d met M once, a long time ago in Hong Kong, and to say that the tough old lady had made a lasting impression on him would be an understatement. Still, it doesn’t even occur to him that 007 might be here as part of her guard until he sees the blond agent skulking around in a dark corner, clearly not too enthused about his current assignment either.

To be entirely honest, he doesn’t really know what to feel about possibly meeting James Bond again. After their last encounter, he’d done some careful digging into the other’s background (okay fine, he’d asked JARVIS to do it – Tony sometimes being a little _too_ happy to go snooping around in other people’s businesses) only to be completely floored by the end result. James Bond, born James _Barton_. Remaining family: one brother, named Clint Barton. Not even in his wildest dreams had Clint thought of something like _this_.

At first he’s angry – at James (it feels weird calling him by his – fake – last name, when he apparently is his damn brother) for not simply telling him, for not looking for him earlier, maybe, and at himself for letting himself be so affected by this. It’s not as if this knowledge changes anything; he’s still the same person, still has the same life, the same job, the same friends – just an absent brother now too.

(Of course it matters. He wouldn’t even be thinking about it so much if it didn’t.)

Then he thinks about seeking James out, to talk to him somehow, but decides against it – ostensibly because they’re both busy men, but if he’s honest with himself, it’s more due to the fact that he can’t shake the annoying feeling that if James really cared about him and wanted him around, he would’ve done something already and not let him go so easily after London. Clint would just end up the fool if he turned up in his apartment only to be thrown out again.

After that he slips into a state of uneasy acceptance, or rather, a state of waiting. They might meet again and until then he figures he might as well let sleeping dragons lie.

Now however, with James entirely in his reach, he can’t help but be drawn to him, plans of letting the other make the first move be damned. At any rate, the other definitely deserves to be snuck up on from behind. This time the grin does slip out. Time to surprise a certain Brit.

Clint’s plan works just fine, up until the point at which he actually has to do the sneaking. Pressed against a (very uncomfortable) wall with one arm over his throat and a gun pressed into the side of his head, he has to admit that maybe he’d either underestimated James Bond, or overestimated his own ability to be quiet enough to surprise a seasoned agent.

As fast as he’d whirled around and pinned Clint to the walls, James lets go of him again, the gun disappearing beneath his suit.

“Barton,” he acknowledges and Clint is only a little miffed that he doesn’t even have the decency to sound surprised.

Clint glares at him. “You might as well call me Clint, _James_.”

“Ah. So you found out.” James’ expression turns considering. “Who did you get to hack into my files? Q would probably give his right hand to find that out.”

Clint’s glare deepens. “Who do you think? There’re some perks to living in the same building as Tony Stark. Well, actually his AI did all the work, but it amounts to the same thing really.”

He doesn’t feel the need to mention that he and Tony are, well, in some kind of relationship anyway. Judging by the smirk on James’ lips, something in his voice had given him away regardless.

“So are we going to talk about this?” he demands, partly to derail any attempt at talking about Tony, and partly because he really does want to know.

James looks unimpressed with his attempt at diversion, but lets it slide anyway. “I suspect we might, seeing as you’re so keen.”

Feeling rather self-conscious and far too vulnerable all of sudden, Clint crosses his arms in front of his chest, only too aware of James’ calm gaze resting on him. Turns out that having James Bond’s nearly undivided attention (they’re still on the job after all) is a bit of a terrifying experience.

“Then tell me, why now? Why did you never…”

His question trails off into nothingness, but it hardly needs to be voiced anyhow.

“Because I didn’t know,” James answers simply, and for the first time there’s something other than calm in his voice, an urgency creeping into his voice. It’s clear that this is important to him and Clint can feel his heart lightening in response. “When I was informed that you would be after the same target in London, I asked Q to look into you and he got one of his computer people on it.” The corner of his lips twitches. “Turns out you don’t need to be Tony Stark to hack into someone else’s system. If the records he found are correct, we were separated when our mother died. You were still a baby and I’m only three years older than you. Except for some really vague memories I have no recollection of any of this.”

Clint nods his understanding, his throat suddenly tight. “And why didn’t you tell me then? Once you knew?”

For the first time James refuses to meet his gaze. “What do you imagine I could’ve said? Oh, and by the way, I’m your brother, though you probably don’t remember me? I thought it would be… easier this way.”

“I guess,” Clint says doubtfully, but he remembers some of the notes in James’ file – emotional issues would be putting it mildly. He should probably be happy they’re having this conversation at all.

“I’m sorry,” James offers unexpectedly, startling Clint into meeting his gaze.

He swallows once. “No, it’s alright. I’m not even sure I would’ve done anything different in your position. We could, I dunno, start over, I guess?”

That provokes a smile from the other man, his _brother_ , god he needs to get used to this, a true one. “Yes, I would like that.”

Of course that’s when the explosions start and everyone jumps into action. Once the dust has settled, and Clint’s gotten Fury and his entourage out, he doesn’t catch sight of James again.

(3)

Clint’s on a mission in Turkey when he meets James for the third time – and this time comes as even more of a surprise than the last two occasions had, seeing as James is _supposed to be fucking dead_. They’d regularly exchanged texts and emails since the world security summit, so Clint had already been on edge and worried when he hadn’t heard anything from James for three weeks, without the forewarning of an extended mission. When ‘someone from Q-branch, the one who hacked your files’ had called him with the news that Commander James Bond was now officially listed as KIA, the ground had dropped away beneath him. To get a brother when over forty, only to have him torn away from you after a few months of actually getting to know him, is possibly the cruellest thing he can imagine. Even Thor had commented on his brooding silences in the aftermath, but he hadn’t felt able to talk to anyone about it – not even Tony.

The mission assignment to Turkey had come as a relief and having finished it with minimal fuss, he had decided he deserved a short stroll on the beach.

Enjoying the quiet and absence of anyone else in the very early morning hours, he makes his way along the waves, for once feelings something approaching contentment. He grimaces at one of the many bars marring the beach in front of him, two lone people occupying the wooden deck. One is what seems to be the bartender – the other a customer… Clint freezes. The customer looks suspiciously like someone very much dead, no, it couldn’t be.

A mix of anger, surprise, and hope building inside him, Clint marches towards the bar, halting only once he’s in front of an impossibly alive James Bond, who’s too busy staring at the TV as if it holds the key to all the secrets in the universe to even acknowledge him.

“You know, one of these days I might actually go to see that SHIELD psychiatrist, seeing as I _keep seeing dead people_ ,” he says sharply. It had only been a few weeks since Phil had turned up in the Avengers Tower, very much alive. And now here is his supposedly deceased brother, looking like hell warmed over, sitting at a Turkish beach as if no one’s grieving for him.

James doesn’t look at him. “You wouldn’t be the first one.”

His brother’s unshakeable calm is the last straw. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Everyone thinks you’re dead. _I_ thought you were dead!”

“I didn’t think I’d be coming back,” James admits quietly. “You were better off thinking me dead anyway.”

He might not know him very well yet, but Clint knows enough to be brought up short by the wrongness of James’ behaviour. James Bond isn’t old, isn’t tired, and, most of all, he doesn’t give up.

“What happened?”

So James tells him. About his assignment, Ronson dying, the chase, the train fight, and M’s decision. Clint listens to the whole tale, silent and without judgement.

Well, without judgement except for this. “You still could’ve called me.”

“And risk you too?” Bond snaps, his eyes flashing with something of their old fire again for the first time. “It was only a matter of time until someone used either of us against the other. Is it so objectionable of me to want to avoid that? Me being dead provided the perfect clean break.”

The worst thing is that Clint can even understand his reasoning. Sometimes he thinks this life they’ve both more or less chosen shouldn’t be wished on anyone.

“No one even knows about our connection,” he points out instead.

James just smiles sardonically. “Believe me, these things have a way of coming out at the most inconvenient time possible.”

Clint frowns, unable to argue with James’ point, and suddenly remembers something James had said earlier. “You said you _didn’t_ plan on going back. What changed your mind?”

James nods over to the television. A news channel is on and Clint reads _Attack on MI6’s Headquarters in London leaves nation reeling_ running though at the bottom of the screen. His lips twist. “There should be a picture of you next to the definition of loyalty in the dictionary. They throw you to the wolves, and yet you still go back once everything goes to hell.”

“They need me,” James shrugs, somehow managing to look even more tired than before. “Besides I was never that good at staying dead.”

Clint snorts. “I can believe that.”

His phone chimes, making him sigh. “I need to get going, or my ride back is going to leave without me.” He hesitates for a moment. “Just… be careful okay? Try not to get killed _again_. And call me if anything comes up.”

James nods gravely, clasping Clint’s arm in an aborted embrace. There’s even a hint of a smile on his lips when he says, “And the same goes for you, Clint. Don’t think I haven’t heard about your habit of jumping off buildings.”

Clint stares at him, resisting the urge to groan and bang his head against the table. “You haven’t been talking to Tony, have you?”

James only winks at him. Smug pain in the ass that he is.

(4)

The fourth time is, truthfully, barely worth mentioning. Clint is out on the streets of New York City on a run – he usually doesn’t do that, but sometimes excess energy just keeps building up until practising at the range or getting beat up by Nat just isn’t enough anymore – when people behind him suddenly start screaming and jumping off the sidewalk. The reason becomes apparent a few seconds later, as a motorbike shoots around the corner at full speed, using said sidewalk instead of the street. Clint barely has enough time to get out of the way himself (already regretting having left his bow at the Tower) before the vehicle zooms past him.

Scarcely two seconds later, another motorbike, this time a police model, appears, hot in pursuit.

James even manages to wave at him cheerfully without killing anyone with his one-handed driving. Clint waves back, slightly taken by surprise (though he’s rapidly learning to never be surprised at anything his crazy brother does), though by the time he gets around to it, James’ back is the only thing able to witness the gesture.

Shaking his head fondly, Clint resolves to ask him later what that was all about. A British agent on a motorbike chase in New York, what was the world coming to?

(A day later he can hardly contain his laughter as Fury keeps going on about foreign, stupid-ass, reckless agents who leave a trail of damage in _his_ city without even being courteous enough to apologize – or foot the bill.)

(5)

The fifth time Clint still wishes to never have happened. Well, it didn’t end up that bad, but still.

They’re all eating dinner, a quite delightful chicken casserole that Bruce had cooked, when the post man arrives. Clint doesn’t expect there to be anything for him – there never is and why should there be? – so he’s a little surprised at the big yellow envelope addressed to Clint Barton, Avenger, Avengers Tower.

He stares at the garishly well-focused and bright pictures of a bound and bleeding James that tumble out in numb shock and can only think _he was right then, he was right all along_.

A typed note slips out of the envelope last, fluttering to the table in front of him, innocent and white. It reads: Come alone or he dies. Beneath there’s a set of coordinates. Clint almost snorts. Very short and to the point.

“Clint?”

Natasha’s sharp query shakes him out of his paralysis. It only takes him a second to decide that this isn’t something he can keep hidden. He wordlessly pushes the photos and the note over to her.

He hears her sudden intake of breath, the murmuring of the others crowding around her, the Russian curse that slips past her lips.

“Who is this?” she asks, all business again.

Look at that. It seems JARVIS has indeed been true to his word and not informed anyone about his little digging into James Bond’s background. He isn’t even entirely sure why he hasn’t told the team yet – perhaps the fact that he still doesn’t entirely know where they stand with each other, though their relationship has undoubtedly been deepening steadily over the last few months. So far James has kept his word to always keep Clint informed and he keeps learning about the other man through their correspondence, even going so far as to have entertained the vague thought of maybe meeting up with him some time, away from their respective jobs.

Clint meets her gaze squarely. “Someone important.”

He feels Tony’s sudden tension more than he hears or sees it and his heart sinks. Tony’s lack of a sense of self-worth never fails to pain him – someone as brilliant and beautiful as Tony shouldn’t have to fear abandonment whenever he takes a leap of faith in someone – and to make him angry; angry at everyone who’d come before him, and angry at Howard, the root of this problem that Clint has apparently still failed to address properly. He’s _tried_ , oh he has, but whatever he says Tony simply nods, smiles, and doesn’t believe him anyway.

And he doesn’t have the time for dealing with this right now. Looking directly at Tony, he clarifies, “He’s my brother.”

As expected, his statement is followed by several surprised, or unbelieving exclamations from everyone else.

For once even Natasha looks wrong-footed. “Since when do you have a brother?” she asks, eyes narrowed.

“Look, do we really have the time to talk about this now?” he snaps. “Ask me later if you’re so curious, but getting him out of this alive _as soon as possible_ would be great.”

He looks at each and every one of them in turn, taking in mostly worried faces. “To make this clear. I’m _going_. I would like to have you as a back-up, but I’ll go alone if I have to.”

_I owe him that much._

“Don’t be stupid,” Steve says immediately. “We’re coming with you.”

Clint permits himself a grateful smile, despite the circumstances. “I was hoping you would say that. Could you get ready? I have someone to call.”

He and James had agreed some time ago now that in the case of an emergency, their respective partners were to be notified immediately. In Clint’s case that means Tony, in James’ Q. Even though Clint has never met the man, James has told him enough to give him a certain sense of familiarity. Besides Clint knows his brother trusts Q with his life and that’s enough for him.

When they finally arrive near the coordinates in eastern Ukraine, Clint steadfastly ignores the rest of his team’s worried looks and outspoken protestations at being left behind. He’s not going to risk James’ life by having them come any closer and goading the kidnapper into killing him because of a violation of his (or her, Clint supposes – he’s still got no idea who’s actually behind all this, since there’re plenty of people who could bear a grudge against him) instructions. He’s just glad he didn’t specify for Clint to be unarmed; it might not make a difference in the end, but it certainly makes him feel better now.

The ‘super-secret-lair’ Clint was expecting, turns out to be more of a ‘marginally-secret-shit-dump-factory’, which doesn’t even seem to be very well-guarded. He’s just going to take that as a good sign.

As expected, the guards that _are_ there take him into custody the second he arrives at the gate, marching him into the factory without more comment than ‘Move’ and ‘Don’t try to run’. If it had been only him, no one else he cares about involved, he’d have complained about the bad service – as it is, he holds his tongue and follows them silently in a slightly exaggerated show of obedience.

By the time he’s meeting the probable instigator of this whole mess in what seems to be some kind of entry hall, without having been relieved of his weapons _and_ having been humoured when he’d demanded to see James as proof that he’s really there and still alive before agreeing to anything (seriously, every half-serious villain would’ve noticed that Clint would never risk James’ life even without proof), Clint is pretty sure that this is actually going to go well for once. In fact he has to supress a snicker when the guys who were sent to fetch James came back empty handed and stuttering as they’d found his cell empty.

From then on it can hardly be called a surprise when James turns up from behind two minutes later and the bullets start flying. It only takes another two minutes to subdue the rest of their antagonists.

James grins at him, face bloody and slightly favouring his left side, though no untrained eye would’ve spotted it. “They weren’t even smart enough to keep the keys out of my reach while ‘interrogating’ me.”

“They also didn’t search me for weapons,” Clint returns, equally amused. “Any idea who they are?”

James raises an eyebrow. “I figured you should know, seeing as they weren’t really interested in me much, except for using me as a punching bag.”

“Can’t recall seeing any of them before,” Clint shrugs. “There’re plenty of people who don’t like me anyway. How did they even get you?”

James grimaces, nudging one of them with his foot and then leans down to check the lead guy’s pockets. “Sheer dumb luck. I ran into a bit of trouble on my last assignment and they showed up at exactly the wrong time. Aha!”

He straightens again, what looks to be a mobile, probably his judging by its expensive look, in his hand. Dialling a number, he moves a little ways away, holding a finger up in Clint’s direction in the universal sign for ‘gimme a minute’.

“Yes, Q, it’s me, and I’m fine. No, no life-threatening injuries. Clint called you? Good, I could do with an extraction. Tell the helicopter to land on the roof, would you? See you soon.”

 Clint hides a grin. Very much to the point, those two. He then startles to find himself suddenly fixed by an intense blue stare.

“I assume they sent you a ransom demand or some such?”

Clint nods. James’ gaze sharpens even further.

“And you immediately came here.”

It sounds like a question, so Clint says, “Of course. You’re my brother.”

James is silent for a moment, looking, well, not exactly surprised, but more… wondering (God help Clint from all the idiots with self-esteem issues in his life).

“There aren’t many people who’d do that for me, not many at all,” James finally remarks quietly. “I’m starting to think my picture shouldn’t be the only one next to the dictionary entry for loyalty, little brother.”

Clint smiles. It’s the first time James has called him that. “We can also share the reckless-idiots-award, if you want to. From what I’ve heard you earned it just as much as I.”

“We should open a family business,” James snorts, just before his phone vibrates in his pocket. “I have to go. Q’s already cross enough with me as it is and the helicopter was already here, waiting for you to resolve the situation since you called him so early.”

Clint tips his imaginary head in acknowledgement, after all he’s not going to force James to endure a whole ride on the Avengers Quinjet when they’ve only just found out about him. “I’ll be seeing you around, brother.”

“Yes, I imagine you will.”

(+1)

The Avengers Tower has been unnaturally silent for the last week. Tony has been holed up in his workshop for days now, much to Clint’s frustration even if he does understand why his lover sometimes lets himself get lost in his projects, and Thor has been visiting Jane in New Mexico (hopefully convincing her to finally move to New York – they all wouldn’t mind missing out on Thor’s mopey phases when he misses her more than usual). Bruce, Steve, and Natasha are always quiet inhabitants anyway, which only leaves _him_ to cause a ruckus, which admittedly, he normally does enjoy doing with much enthusiasm, but somehow the silence has been corresponding to his brooding thoughts lately, so he doesn’t make an effort.

Instead he’s often to be found on the roof or in various vents, mulling over the thoughts that frequently occupy his mind at the moment.

It has occurred to him, thinking about the relationship he has with his surprise brother, that they’ve never actually met _on purpose_ , without being in danger or trying to save each other. It says a lot about how comfortable he’s grown with the other man that he’s actively considering inviting him to New York to introduce him to his team. Yet he still dithers, not sure whether that’s actually a good idea (he has enough self-awareness to realize that his ideas really aren’t always on the healthy side and there are _a lot_ of ways that having James Bond and the Avengers meet could go to hell in a hand basket in a matter of minutes).

Unsurprisingly it’s Natasha who finally provides him with the needed metaphorical (for once) kick up his backside to make up his mind. (And she does it in true Natasha fashion too; first she corners him in the hallway and then proceeds to stare at him threateningly until he gives in and tells her what’s on his mind, only to then declare him an idiot (for the nth time) and tell him to fucking call his brother already.)

Clint opts for the easier text message, quickly sending _Hey James, wanna come meet my other family?_ before Natasha can get wind of him stalling.

The reply, as usual, is prompt. _I should be free next weekend. I’ll bring Q._

Clint grins a little and goes off to instruct his team mates. The disasters he can foresee, he would rather forestall, which means no jumping at James from behind in order to figure out how good his reflexes are (Natasha) or being a complete asshole (Tony). Needless to say, he spends the next few days until the weekend a little on edge – silly it may be, but he really wants his team and his brother to get along.

Saturday morning arrives and so does James Bond, though Clint immediately notices he’s alone. Before anyone has the chance to go down with the elevator to greet him, Natasha immediately confronts him at the main entry. Luckily Clint had foreseen exactly that and is following their interaction on the security cameras, just in case Natasha decides to do something unwise, like trying to kill James for example (she probably wouldn’t, for Clint’s own sake, but if being an agent has taught him anything, it’s to always expect the worst kind scenario).

He watches and listens, appropriately intrigued.

“You must be Ms. Romanov,” James says, charming smile firmly in place.

“Mr. Bond,” Natasha returns coolly. “Or should it be Mr. Barton?”

“I go by Bond. Carries less of a risk, you understand,” James replies and apparently he’s caught the hint for he’s stopped smiling and just looks calmly professional now.

She nods once, taking his point. Their relation to Clint is, after all, what brings them together in the same room in the first place.

“Don’t you think two guns and a knife is a bit much to bring on a visit to family?” Natasha asks next, eyes habitually sharp.

James’ lips twitch. “Says the woman carrying a gun, three knives, one strap of garrotte, and her famous widow bite _in her own home_.”

“Well, there was a stranger scheduled to arrive today,” she counters, slowly looking him up and down, obviously and provocatively assessing.

James doesn’t react, safe for saying, “I doubt Clint sees me as a stranger, or he probably wouldn’t have _invited_ me. Tell me, do you always decide who is to interact with him and who isn’t?”

“Oh, hardly. He’s usually capable enough looking after himself.” She smiles without a trace of humour. “Yet I only have his best interests at heart, seeing as I’ve known him for over ten years now.”

“Lucky you,” James comments mildly. “Now, are you going to attack me to see how good my reflexes are or can we enter the elevator?”

Clint can practically see the effort she has to put into keeping her face still and can’t help but be impressed. James is handling his first meeting with the Black Widow far better than basically anyone else he’s seen in the same position.

“You might do,” Natasha finally says, the ice in her expression at least partially thawed as she follows him into the elevator.

Clint sits back with a sigh of relief. Well, that had gone better than expected.

*

The rest of the team is waiting for his guest in the penthouse and the usual round of introductions follows, also going as smoothly as hoped. James smiles and shakes hands, introducing himself to every single team member while Clint hovers in the background, making encouraging noises. James has barely finished shaking Thor’s massive hand (and without wincing too, Clint notes impressed – Thor has a tendency to slightly crush non-super powered people’s hands in greeting), when JARVIS speaks up. “Sir, Ms. Potts is calling. Should I advise her to call back at a later time?”

Tony waves his hand distractedly. “Yeah do that.”

To his credit, James doesn’t even blink at hearing an incorporeal voice suddenly emanate from seemingly nowhere. Noticing everyone’s gazes on him, he shrugs. “We may not have a full AI running Headquarters, but I am used to technologically advanced equipment.”

Tony immediately stiffens, his face clouding over as he snaps, “JARVIS is hardly _equipment_.”

For a moment no one even dares to breathe.

“My apologies, JARVIS,” James says seriously, inclining his head.

“Apology accepted, Agent Bond,” JARVIS returns, unruffled.

James smiles slightly. “Please, Mr. Bond or James is just fine. After all I’m off duty.”

“As you wish, Mr. Bond.” JARVIS even seems to sound _pleased_. Huh.

Tony slowly relaxes, giving James a nod, which is returned. Crisis averted.

“Where’s Q?” Clint pipes up in the ensuing silence, genuinely curious. He’d been looking forward to finally meeting James’ partner.

“He had to stay at Headquarters,” James grumbles, obviously displeased with the fact. “The Syria crisis is coming to a head and M claimed he needed him.”

Clint nods his understanding. “Did you have breakfast yet? We have some pancakes lying around…”

As expected, interested chatter rises up immediately at the mention of food, breaking the last of the tension as everyone files into the kitchen.

*

Two hours later Clint finds James leaning against a wall in a shadowy corner of the penthouse, the rest of the Avengers talking loudly in the background.

“Jesus Christ, Clint, are they always this,” James gesticulates fruitlessly, “ _much_?”

Looking at his harried looking brother, whose short hair is still sticking up in weird angles from the the impromptu pillow fight (which Clint had had nothing to do with starting _at all_ , why would you even suggest that?), Clint starts laughing uncontrollably.

“Welcome to my life,” he finally gasps between hiccups, only to find James smiling at him with a mixture of fondness and horror.

“They’re _always_ like that?!”

Clint grins back at him. “You have no idea…”

James only shakes his head, patting his arm consolingly. “If you ever need an escape, you’re welcome at mine.”

Clint thinks that, yes, this is what family feels like – _also_. Shouldn’t hurt to have two.


End file.
